Thanksgiving Night

I didn't want there to be a Thanksgiving this year.  While I still have much to be thankful for, this holiday without Brian is unthinkable.

Last year we hosted Thanksgiving for some of our nieces, nephews, and one sister in law and it was the kind of Thanksgiving I have always dreamed of.  I haven't forgotten that I had about 20 minutes of the crankies when I got stuck scrubbing all the pots and casseroles without help, but that only lasted until I got done.  The kids were playing games, we all enjoyed just being comfortable with each other.  It was pretty darned close to perfect.  And Brian was there, and the two of us were happy, and thrilled to be having an amazing day with family.  No tension, no fighting, no drama.  Just good food, good fun, and a lot of love.  It was to become a tradition.  But...

And now Brian is gone, and our plans to create this wonderful tradition that we could enjoy with our loved ones and the next generation of loved ones - well - it just can't be.  Nothing can ever be the way that I had dreamed.

This years plan was to just ignore the holiday.  No cooking, no guests, no festive meal.  I wanted to sleep through it and pretend it didn't exist.

My parents are still here.  When they planned to come help me after the surgery, my mom refused to leave before Thanksgiving.  While I would have liked to be alone so I could cry freely, I love her for insisting on staying.  A few days ago I actually felt bad.  My parents have been really great - and I was depriving them of Thanksgiving too.  So I called Farm and made a reservation for 3 under my name.  They always do a traditional turkey dinner, but also offer a vegetarian option.  Mom and dad could have the holiday, and I could just eat.  I thought it would be OK.

When we got there, many people were waiting to be seated.  I gave the Maitre D' my last name.  Just a few minutes later, a hostess tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Table for Brian?". It felt like time stopped.  I couldn't breath.  I didn't use his name when making the reservation or checking in.  It felt like the most cruel kind of a joke.

I followed the hostess to our table - the same table where Brian and I ate the first time we went to Farm.  A table set for four, with four menus.

Just as I started to feel like I had to leave, I stopped.  This was no cruel joke.  This was no cosmic message.  This was just a little odd and unexpected.  Brian and I had eaten there many times together.  We have an unusual last name.  We are polite patrons.  Everyone loved Brian for his kindness, patience, and sense of humor - so it wasn't odd that they would remember his first name with our last name.  I decided that I would just eat my meal, forget about the holiday, and hold all the love that Brian and I share close in my heart and my thoughts.

Dinner was OK, but it wasn't Thanksgiving - it was just food.  My parents enjoyed there meals' as did I, but it was just a meal.  If I planned to acknowledge Thanksgiving, it would have been the worst Thanksgiving ever - make that 2nd worse.  There was no joy at our table, no laughter.  No extended family.  No favorite recipes.  There was barely any conversation.  And I think that I am Thankful for all that wasn't.

I don't know if I'll be ready to have Thanksgiving next year or if I'll need more time.  I don't know much anymore.  I do know that my husband was an amazing man.  Nobody loves and appreciated him more than I, but so many people saw how special he was, and remember him as a wonderful man.  From Jeff at Commercial Services who cried with me as he shared his memories of Brian, to all of our friends, to his clients, to the staff at the Farm.  Brian was special, and he touched so many people, and he is loved and remembered by so many.

Today wasn't Thanksgiving for me.  It was just a Thursday, and I survived it.  The tears didn't begin to flow until I had privacy.  My parents went to sleep, and I can think, and remember, and cry, and blog, and know that as sad as I now am, I am grateful to have Brian's love, and Thankful for every second we had together. Even while intentionally avoiding the holiday, I somehow managed to focus on being Thankful for Brian's love, humor, kindness and a million other qualities before letting in the pain and grief.

Brian, I wish you were here so I could tell you how thankful and grateful I am for our love, marriage, friendship, and completeness.  I would also like to thank you for leaving behind your wisdom.  I can't see you, I can't hear you, but I still rely on your wisdom, strength, and compassion to get me through each day.

Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is the first Thanksgiving without him.  Just a year ago he was here and we didn't know about the cancer.  We made a turkey and our nieces and nephews were here and we had a great family Thanksgiving.

Just a year ago - a lifetime ago.

Maturing Grief

Grief ages like wine.  With time it takes on more levels and more subtle tones.  It starts out almost one dimensional - a flat and completely overwhelming pain.  With time, it mellows but takes on so many nuances and subtle flavors that can sneak up on you and overwhelm you with their strength.

Those closest to grief can be overcome by it.  It can so easily take control and overshadow everything in life.
I have come to believe that I am powerless over my grief, but no moral inventory can free me from this pain.

Pain begets pain.

I had back surgery this week.  It was an out-patient procedure and was, as far as back surgery goes, relatively minor.

I have lots of restrictions though.  I have to rest, I can't lift more than five pounds.  My only exercise or therapy is walking.  I'm a little bit helpless.  My parents flew in for three weeks to help me as I recuperate.  I'm so grateful that they are here, but the person who I really wish could be here can't.  I miss Brian so desperately, and this forced rest makes his absence to much more painful.

What's worse are the flashbacks to painful memories.  For the first two days the pain at my incision site was quite severe - but then I thought of his incision and how awful it was for him.  My parents are pushing me to eat more despite my loss of appetite, and that triggers me back to Brian's inability to eat for three and a half months, and it makes me cry.  So I try to not let these painful memories overwhelm me.  I imagine he is here, and healthy, and taking care of me.  I imagine us laying down in bed together - my head on his shoulder while he holds me and comforts me through the physical pain' and I know that the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain.

In some ways I'm doing better.  My leg and back pain should be gone once I heal from surgery.  My eye seems to be less painful.  A new antidepressant to help me with my grief and new meds to help me sleep are making me less foggy and allowing my thinking to be more clear.  That also makes the painful memories more clear and my vision for all my tomorrows more bleak.

This sadness is unbearable and while the pain changes, it doesn't go away.  I will figure out how to live, but I will never heal from this pain and loss.

Nobody can understand.  Others who have lost the love of their life can understand the intensity of the loss, but each loss is unique, and we are all alone with our pain.  I think that Brian understood how awful this would be for me.  He knew me like no one else ever could.

He is still my husband, the love of my life, my best friend.  He will always be those things to me.